


Retraining the Hound

by Vermilion_Sunrise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Back at Winterfell, F/M, His Seed, POV Sandor Clegane, POV Sansa Stark, Plans of her own, Retraining The Hound, Rough Sex, Sex, Strong Female Characters, sansan, strong sansa, the hound
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-05-31 20:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15127409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vermilion_Sunrise/pseuds/Vermilion_Sunrise
Summary: SanSan AU / Post BotB: It is often said in the North that should the paths of two people be intertwined, nothing can keep them apart. When the paths of the Lady of Winterfell and the most notorious warrior of the Seven Kingdoms again cross, Sansa will have to take a hard line to bring Sandor back to his true self.





	1. The Will of the Old Gods

**Author's Note:**

> I always find it a bad omen to write a story before I know the ending....but since To Honor Her Father went so well, I'm at it again. I've written a few chapters of this story and am looking for some extra events to put in here. My suggestion would be to read this little taster first and then give your input. I'll have some follow-up notes at the end. As always --LOVE you input and CHERISH the community spirit of this site. Happy reading!

#  Chapter 1: The Will of the Old Gods

 

##  Sansa

 

There was a knock on the door that stirred Sansa from her ledger. It was late, her candles had burned down and she had gone through several logs for her fire already. She should have been in bed, but she was working -- fitting in some final notes preparing Winterfell for the long winter approaching.

 

“Enter.” She said, not looking up from her parchment.

 

Her captain of the guard shuffled in, clearly uncomfortable to disturb her at such a late hour. “My Lady there has been a...disturbance.”

 

She finished the sentence she was in the middle of and looked up at Ambrose, waiting for him to continue with the reason for his late intrusion. 

 

“We captured a man my Lady. We found him outside the walls of Winterfell...we uh...we think it’s the Hound.” The man stood there, nervous and unsure as to what would happen next.

 

Now, Sansa knew Ambrose to be a good man, not one to imagine things or tell tall tales. But the Hound was dead, both Brienne and Arya and sworn to it. She cocked her head to the side, not hiding her annoyance at his disturbance.

 

“And what makes you think you’ve captured the Hound?” There was a challenge in her voice that made Ambrose consider his next words carefully.

 

“Well ma'am he’s….rather big and ugly.” The slender captain said, the nervous tapping of his foot filled the room irritating her further.

 

Now she was very, very annoyed. Sansa rolled her eyes, not bothering at all to cover her annoyance, “Do you care to explain what you mean by “rather big and ugly”?” 

 

Sansa’s voice threatened unbridled anger over his words, over the mere mention of Sandor Clegane as some sort of beast from a child’s fairytale. She tightened her fist knowing that he’d been ostracised most of his life for a childhood spat that had gone hopelessly out of control. Sansa knew that behind the scars and the armor, behind his muscles and his harsh words, that he was gentle and protective. But she also knew that she should not get her hopes up, not let her mind meander back to days long past.

 

Ambrose thought for a moment, trying decide how to best describe the man he had in the dungeon without further upsetting her, then continued. “Well my Lady, he’s as big as a door frame, and...his face...it’s like half of it is melted.”

 

At this admission Sansa felt a pang in her chest, something she had not felt in a long time. ‘ _ Could it be?’  _

 

The thought that it could be Sandor, overroad her anger at Ambros’ depiction of him. “If I go down into the dungeons and this man is not the Hound, you and your men will be on crow chasing duty for the next two months.” She gave him her hardened “Lady of Winterfell” stare to make sure he knew the consequences of his actions. Of getting her hopes up that he may still live.

 

The man nodded and opened the door so she could exit with him. Sansa took her thick warm cloak and threw it over her shoulders. The temperature had dropped in recent weeks, snow had begun to cover the ground on a more permanent basis. She nodded and Ambrose grabbed the torch and lead her through the halls and stairways of her family home.

 

Jon was raising his armies, gathering support to fight the threat from beyond the Wall. That left her to handle the daily work in Winterfell. She found that administering the castle suited her, paying attention to detail and being able to manage both a house as well as a barracks. She had accomplished a lot since they had won back her ancestral home from the Boltons, learned a lot about life and human nature in the meantime. It had not been until they had retaken Winterfell and she had been reunited with Arya that she had heard of the Hound’s demise. Somehow Sansa had felt like she’d lived two lifetimes since they had been together in King’s Landing, but even then it wasn’t until she had learned of his death, had she realized how much she cared for him. It was only when she had turned a woman grown that she had understood the look in his eyes when she had been in his presence. She would have given much to see a man look at her like that again.

 

Shaking herself from her musings, Sansa lifted her skirts as she went down the winding stairs into the dungeon. It was colder down there, as if the stone sucked out out any warmth that could have lived there. The light was dim as the stairs flattened out and Ambrose brought her to a lonely holding cell at the end of the hall. Two other men stood up and saluted her as she approached, looking nervously into the dark cell.

 

The smell of alcohol hit Sansa first, it was so strong she wondered if one could get drunk from pure smell. She wrinkled her nose a bit but drew herself closer to the dark cell. 

 

“Ambrose bring the torch.” She ordered.

 

There was a man in there, of that she was certain. He was laying on the ground of the damp, cold cell, only some straw to pad the floor. It was impossible to see his face.

 

“Open the cell door, I need to get a closer look at him.”

 

The men did as they were bid, this seemed to stir the prisoner lying on the floor within. As he rolled from his side and slowly, even unsteadily rose from the floor, Sansa could see he had shackles on both his wrists and ankles. When he did finally stand, he was still in the dark, big almost looming over her and the guards. The large man swayed uneasily in front of her, still a silhouette against the dim light of the torches.

 

“He’s drunk.” Sansa said to her captain of the guard, turning her face to him surprised.

 

“We found him this way my Lady. Half frozen and wondering around the walls of the keep.”

 

Sansa could tell the man was at least conscious now, the way his head turned toward her when she spoke. He was listening through his drunken stupor, aware that his surroundings had changed. It was hard not to have your stomach clench in fear, even with shackles your mind began to play out all the bad scenarios, the what ifs and the if thens should this man decide to be difficult. She grabbed Ambros’ wrist and brought the torch closer. Then she inhaled, steading her voice.

 

“Come into the light.” She ordered the prisoner, squinting her eyes against the bright light of the fire hoping to see something. 

 

The monster of a man in front of her shifted uncomfortably, making the shackles around his wrists and ankles klink loudly in the quiet of Winterfell’s dungeons. When the man did finally step forward, Sansa had to do everything possible to control the fear that rose in her body. The prisoner’s face shot out into the light, mangled and disfigured, his long dark hair matted to his head, his eyes heavily lidded from the booze, his breath smelling of strong proof alcohol and vomit.

 

“Well well well, if it isn’t the elder Stark bitch? Where’s that little sister of yours? I owe that bitch a broken hand or two.” His laugh was a drunken, evil thing. Something that gave you shivers in the night, that would make grown men bolt their bedroom doors before going to bed. 

 

Sansa’s guards drew their swords, though the man was still shackled. It was unmistakably the Hound. She could never forget that face for as long as she lived, that voice for even longer. The man that had been the Lannister’s Dog, Joffrey’s Pet, one of the most feared warriors of Westeros was standing here, in her dungeon drunk off his tits, disheveled and properly out of shape from his warrior days. 

 

_ ‘What on earth happened to you?’ _ Sansa wondered, seeing only pain and anger in his eyes. 

 

“Remove his bonds.” She ordered her guards, a cold edge to her voice.

 

“But my Lady, he’s…..” one of the guards began.

 

Sansa cut him off quickly, “I know who he is and I know what I said. Now remove his bonds.” There was no arguing with her tone, not talking back.

 

The men were scared of him, terrified of him even in this state. It saddened her deeply to see the Hound this way, down on his luck and buried in his cups. The sounds of the locks opening and the shackles being removed made Sansa stirr from her thoughts. She’d been playing with the rings on her fingers, a silly childhood habit that made her feel like a little girl sometimes. One of the only true tells that she was nervous. Now, however, it would serve a different purpose. She made sure her jewels were facing in toward her palm, then took two steps closer to the Hound and smacked him hard across the face. Her men flinched in surprise.

 

The Hound was surprised as well, his face turning from the force of her blow. “What the fu…”

 

She slapped him again, this time drawing a thin line of blood across his cheek where one of her bigger gems had made contact with his face. The big man held his face now with a hand, checking his fingers in the dim light and registering that she had drawn blood.

 

“Never use that word to describe me or my sister again. If you do, I’ll put a collar on you and parade you around Winterfell on all fours like the dog you are.” Sansa waited to see if he would react, letting her threat sink in. They were so close now she could smell the vomit that covered the front part of his tunic, but it didn’t matter, she needed to make a point. 

 

When the silence dragged on, she continued. “Wolves and dogs are not so different you know. You just need to show who the alpha is, then the rest fall in line.” She eyed him now, seeing the rage that was building inside him, the anger that threatened to boil over into physical.

 

“Those are some pretty fucking brave words to say when you have three men with swords ready to kill me.” The Hound said through gritted teeth, fists balling up at his sides.

 

At this Sansa couldn’t help but laugh, heartily. “Do you think I never watched you at Tourney? Never sat there in awe as you took on five men at once? I watched you disarmed them all and made them yield, never once needing your sword.” She waited, she wanted to see if he would say anything. When he did not, she continued. “I know that even in the pitiful state you’re in now you could take these men without thinking twice about it. Kill them without breaking a sweat.”

 

Sansa moved closer, though it was difficult to even imagine being closer to him in this dark claustrophobic cell with three armed guards, the Hound and her. She leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “You could kill them perhaps, but I know you won’t hurt me.”

 

She let her breath blow warmly against his ear on his bad side, knowing he may not be able to feel it. But if he did, knowing he would consider it more intimate and more fearless of her to do so. 

 

The Hound glared at her but said nothing, the tension in his hands gone.

 

“Ambrose. See that he bathes and has a new set of clothes.The smell coming off him could turn us all into white walkers. Clifton. Make sure Clegane receives enough to eat and water to drink, I want him fit and sober in a few days.” Her men nodded. “If I hear that you have mistreated a Lord of Westeros in my household, I will personally see that you are sent to the Wall faster than you can blink. Am I clear?”

 

There was a feverish amount of nodding and ‘yes-ing’ being thrown around as she and her men left the cell, sliding the bars closed behind them. Sansa turned back to the Hound, unclipping her cloak from her shoulders. 

 

“You’ll need this.” She handed it to him through the bars, he didn’t move. “It gets cold.” She said simply and without emotion, dropping the cloak on the floor of the cell. Sansa took one final look at him before turning toward the stairs to leave.

 

Something must have snapped in him then, but what she was not sure. All of the sudden she could hear the sound of iron straining against the stone walls as the Hound used his massive strength to hit and shake the bars. He was roaring, yelling his voice thundering through the cold walls of the dungeon as she rounded the stairs, “SANSA! SANSA get back here!!!! SANSAAAAA!”

 

Her heart was beating fast in her chest as the Lady of Winterfell made her way back to her chambers, where she had left no more than an hour ago. She closed the door behind her quickly and slid down it, her back on the wood her bum now on the floor. She put her head in her hands. 

 

All these years she thought he’d been dead, Arya had said it so. Now, the protector of her sanity, her champion from King’s Landing had ended up here, in her dungeon in the worst condition she had ever seen him in. She looked up toward the heavens and exhaled. Sansa had long forsaken the Seven, her mother’s gods. They had done nothing for her, only brought her pain. Despite her looks she was of the North, and knew that there was an easiness to the Old Gods that filled her with calm. 

 

“The Old Gods saw it fit to bring you back to me. To make our paths cross once again.” She said aloud. “I owe you a chance, I owe you...my life.” She was overwhelmed with emotions, not sure what to do next or how to deal with the task in front of her. She needed him by her side, but she could not take him like this.

 

“Give me the strength to bring him back to me.” This was her prayer, her plea to the gods of her father. It was the only thing she wanted in this world.


	2. Intrusive Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor slowly begins to piece together the events of the night before. Little does he know that the Lady of Winterfell has certain plans for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'll get some shit for this chapter, but don't worry - we just need to check he is healthy and in good working order :-p Also I think he has to kind of feel a low before he can experience the full joy of being brought back into fighting shape.
> 
> Some feels to come and hopefully a strong hand will eventually do Sandor some good.

#  Chapter 2: Intrusive Beginnings

##  Sandor

 

Water hit Sandor’s face like a club with a hundred needles driven through it, the icy coldness of it stabbing at his skin, poking at his eyes and bringing him awake with a jolt. He brought up a hand only to block the second assault of water coming from the open cell door, not that it did him too much good.

 

“Wakie wakie ya ugly son of a bitch, the Lady wants you to wash.” Came an unfamiliar voice from beyond the bars of his cell, from the same direction the water had also come from.

 

Sandor lunged in the direction of the voice, frustrated to only catch bars in his hands and nothing more. The guard kicked the bars where Sandor was, making some rude looking northern gesture he was unfamiliar with. His body was only just now waking up from the near black out like sleep he had been so rudely awaken from. Sandor’s head was pounding, the pressure so great behind his eyes that he felt as if they would burst from his head. He ached all over from his travels the last few days, from falling off his old swayback mare, from stumbling around in the cold...from sleeping on the floor of this cell. 

 

_ ‘Winterfell.’ _

 

He remembered now where he was, and with that the previous night’s events slowly came back to him. He’d been down on his luck these last months, gambled away his armor and what little possessions he had left, trying as hard as he could to drink away his pain. What had started with turning craven at the Battle of the Blackwater had progressed into a defeat by Brienne of Tarth, then to him giving up on the Warrior all together. 

 

_ ‘Bugger the Warrior to the Seven Hells where he fucking belongs.’ _

 

Sandor had given up on his old life after he had survived in the Vale. That meant getting rid of all the vestiges of that life, his horse, his sword, everything. He was nothing now, just a peasant with a price on his head, a feral dog looking for scraps to pilfer from the nearest village or camp.

 

_ ‘Sansa.’ _

 

He sat back against the cold stone wall and put both his hands on his head, then felt the place on his cheek where she had struck him. It was bruised, still tender from the impact of her angry slaps. He had done everything in his power to forget her, to push her from his mind, but somehow she always crept back in. It wasn’t uncommon for him to see her smile in a barmaid’s face, hear her voice from a peasant girl passing him on the road, feel her caresses when he neared the end of a bottle. Her rejection the night he had offered to take her back to the North had burned him more than Gregor ever had. Cut him deeper than Brienne’s Valyrian steel Lannister gold sword ever had in the Vale. 

 

He wouldn’t let it happen again.

 

“Are you ugly and stupid dog? The Lady says you’re to wash, so wash!” Came the same guard’s voice from beyond the bars. There was a vitrol in his tone, anger in his words.

 

There was a bucket on the floor of the cell, a sponge and a bar of soap floating at the top. No towel of course, just a cotton tunic, leather jerkin and some leather pants to go with it. All of the sudden his eyes searched the floor of the dark cell, finding Sansa’s cloak pooled on the floor where she had dropped it for him. She’d been right on one thing, it was cold, cold enough that the clothes offered to him wouldn’t be enough to even keep him warm down here.

 

“You gonna stare at me like a piece of meat boy? Or are ya gonna turn that cunt ass of yours around and give a man some privacy?” Sandor’s insinuation was clear, the anger on the young guard’s face boiling to the surface as he spat and turned around. 

 

“Bloody northerners.” Sandor mumbled, gingerly pushing himself off from the ground and making his way toward the bucket. 

 

The stench wafting from his clothes as he removed them was one of the worst smells he could think of. It was like horseshit mixed with human vomit that had been dragged through a pig’s pen. Naked, Sandor crouched by the bucket and took the soap and sponge in hand.

 

“Fuck the bloody North and it’s bloody cold water.” He said as he put his head in the bucket, lathering his hair with soap. 

 

He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he had washed, but judging by the state of his clothing and the intensity of his hangover, he’d probably been on a booze binge for a couple of days. How he had made it to the one place he had been trying to avoid was beyond him. 

 

Sandor inhaled deeply as he continued to wash himself in the ice cold water of the bucket in front of him. He had begun to shake both from the cold water and air, and from sobering up. His headache had barely gone away when he felt the need for another drink, knowing it would only deaden the pain he had in his heart, not take it away.

 

_ ‘What in the Seven Hells does she want from me?’  _ he wondered, frustrated and angry as he doused himself one last time in the bucket, passing the sponge along his more intimate areas. 

 

He was shivering by the time he made his way to the new set of clothes hanging on a peg for him. The fit him well enough, which wasn’t often the case given his size. The guard had moved away now, leaving him alone in his cell, sitting again on the cold floor and staring at the cloak Sansa had given him. It looked warm, with fur on the inside and wool on the outside. It was as if it were reaching out to him, doing its best to rouse him from his stubbornness. But instead he sat there, his arms wrapped around his knees, shivering. There was no way in the Seven Hells he was ready to give in to Sansa Stark or her fucking inviting warm cloak.

 

* * *

 

 

It was beyond difficult to measure the passing of time it a dungeon. Could it be done by counting drips of some water falling to the floor, or perhaps the amounts of times the guards come to bring you food? Sandor mulled this over as he sat in the dark bowles of Winterfell’s dungeons, cold, angry and waiting. The klinking of a Maester’s chains were what would rouse him from his banal musings. Sandor did his best not to shake, not to show how cold he was as a very old man stepped forward, toward the cell doors. He was a tall man, with blue eyes and a thick salt and pepper beard worn in the northern fashion. There were two guards on either side of him, waiting for his word.

 

“Am I right to find myself in the presence of Sandor Clegane?” the old man asked, in a kindly manner as if oblivious to the spartan conditions in which Sandor found himself in.

 

“Who’s asking?” Sandor answered, his head still pounding from the alcohol.

 

“Ah yes. My name is Maester Leeds, I’ve been sent by Lady Stark to...uh...examine you.” It was the way the old man said ‘examine’ that put Sandor’s instincts on high alert. Something wasn’t right but he couldn’t exactly be sure what it was.

 

“Well tell Lady Stark,” Sandor’s voice spat out her name as if it were a bad taste, “that if she wants to examine me. She can fucking do it herself.”

 

At this the eccentric old man laughed, “Oh dear, I do believe you’ve misunderstood. She wants me to examine you medically. But we can’t do it here, no...far to dark. Come, follow me.”

 

There was a time in Sandor’s life where he would have just told all of them to go fuck themselves, but this was not one of them. Even if he had, at one time, defeated five men at the same time whilst unarmed, he was not going to tempt fate today. No matter how much he had begged the Stranger to take him, he would not lose a fight to some skinny necked jailers or an old Maester for that matter. So, begrudgingly, Sandor stood up, giving himself a second to steady his head, then followed the men out of the dungeon. 

 

_ ‘She has no right to do this. _ ’ The Hound thought to himself as he made his way up the dungeon staircase, through the main yard of Winterfell and up some stairs again to a lonely tower at the east end of the castle. 

 

The Maester’s rooms were very different to what he had seen in King’s Landing. There were books and drawings...things of all kinds scattered across the vast room of Maester Leeds. But there was very little, if any, touch of luxury there. The rooms were comfortable and he wanted for nothing, but they were not as extravagant as what Sandor had seen in the South. 

 

Sandor stood in one of the few open places on the floor that was not covered by parchment looking at the bookshelf toward a jug filled with some creature he had never seen before, wondering what was going to happen. There were two soldiers in the room standing sentinel at the door also seemed unnerved by what was going to happen next. Anticipation was thick in the air as the old Maester went to an even older dusty book and opened up its yellow pages. Maester Leeds leaned over the pages, running a finger down from top to bottom, searching for something.

 

Suddenly the old man looked up and toward Sandor, annoyed, “Well come on lad, you’ll need to get out of your clothes if we’re going to do this properly.”

 

“Bugger that.” Sandor answered, “You can examine me fine like this.”

 

There was no way in the Seven Hells that Sandor was going to give that old coot what he wanted, much less Sansa. _ ‘What the fuck does she want from me?’ _

 

The Maester kept his finger on the page and slowly looked up again, “Oh dear, My Lady won’t like that very much. I suggest you make this easier on all of us and strip down. You can put all your clothing there on the desk.”

 

“I don’t think you heard me. I said ‘fuck you’!” Sandor was angry now, raising to his full height, no shackles or bars to contain his rage. “And fuck your Lady too.”

 

Sandor turned on his heel to leave, when the two soldiers at the door lunged toward him. He dodged one of them but only to have the other grab him by the arm and start to pull him toward the floor. Sandor took the soldier holding him by the throat and threw him across the room, breaking a table, its contents spilling across the floor. The racket had alarmed others, for three additional men entered the room. The Hound had seen worse odds before, he threw his large fist toward the closest face he could find, watching blood come from the man’s broken nose upon impact. 

 

It wasn’t completely a fair fight and in that Sandor knew somehow this battle would end in futility. Somebody threw a rope around his neck and pulled it tight, choking him down to the floor. Two other soldiers grabbed his flailing legs, another punched him in the face.

 

“Now don’t hurt him.” Sandor could hear the Maester yelling over all the commotion in the room. “Yes that’s right bring him to the examination table.” 

 

He was being dragged across the floor to a wooden table with restraints on it. ‘ _ Oh fucking fuck me!’ _ Was all that went through his head as the five men heaved him onto the table, doing their best to keep his arms and legs under control. 

 

“Now remove all his clothing and strap him down lads.” The Maester’s voice was still calm but full of authority as the men did as he asked. 

 

Sandor was growling at his foes, using what strength he had left to gain the upper hand. A wild animal fighting for freedom against immense odds. The rope around his neck was pulled tight, cutting off some air flow as the guards wrestled him down to the examination table. One pulled a leather strap down tight around his waist, stradling Sandor in order to apply the right amount of strength to tie him down. The idiot who let his left arm go to pull his shirt over his head, got a fist right in the face, sending him stumbling a few steps back. This only landed Sandor a tighter noose around his neck and a punch to his own face as his tunic was stripped from him, his arms held down and tied to the table at his sides. Sandor was losing the will to struggle now, his eyes bulging from his head due to lack of oxygen, before he let out one final roar as the men removed his pants and small clothes, leaving him exposed and naked in the cold room.

 

“Gag him and take that rope from around his neck. Lady Sansa was very clear he was not to be harmed.” Came the voice of the old Maester, more authoritative than his earlier more friendly demeanor. 

 

A leather strap was quickly tied around Sandor’s mouth, in between his upper and lower jaws so he couldn’t shut it all the way. He was heaving hard, his blood pressure through the roof as the elderly man tested each of his bonds, running a finger between Sandor’s skin and the straps. 

 

“You did well. Now leave us be lads, I’ll call when we’re finished.” The soldiers were bloodied and bruised, but left in a hurry, not wanting to stand around in shame for too much longer. The Hound had come a little too close to winning that altercation for anyone’s comfort.

 

Sandor turned his head toward the Maester, who had made his way back to his desk, took the old book and brought it closer to the examination table where Sandor now was. 

 

“Now, where was I? Ah yes, of course…” Sandor could see he was scanning the pages for something, a finger running down the left hand side of each page as his eyes flicked over the words. 

 

_ ‘I’m gonna kill her. First the Maester, then her. Stripping me down naked, who the fuck does she think she is?’  _ Were the only things Sandor could think about as he watched the old man, anger bubbling to the surface of his naked body.

 

“Oh there it is, Clegane.” The old man’s finger stopped on a page and he looked up at Sandor, then back to the page. “Your mother is Mirbel and your father Eusteus, correct?”

 

All the Maester got in response was a glare.

 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” The northern man smiled knowingly at Sandor, making him question what was still to come.

 

He read aloud, “The family Clegane. A minor house of the Westerlands, known for the roles as kennel masters, hunters, warriors and….for their great loyalty.” The old man stopped a moment to ponder something, then continued. “Oldest brother Gregor, deceased. Younger sister Daphne, deceased.”

 

The Maester was talking as if he was having a conversation with himself, to the exclusion of the male subject before him. 

 

“Males of the line tend to be large and muscular, dark hair, grey eyes, chest hair.” The Maester walked around his desk, to some measurement tongs and began to very scientifically measure the size of Sandor’s muscles, starting with the biceps, moving to the shoulders and progressively down his body. You didn’t have to be a bloody Maester to confirm the rest of what he had just said. The old man took some notes.

 

Sandor could only grunt and fume in disapproval. 

 

“Now now lad, I know you don’t like it.” The Maester was busy writing down his measurements, not really looking Sandor in the face as he spoke to him, “But you have to understand, we must know if you are healthy and in perfect working order.”

 

There was something in the man’s tone that Sandor didn’t like.  _ ‘What the fuck is going on here?’ _

 

A couple of things were noted in the book before the old man read out loud again, “Known for their fiery temperament, tactical intelligence and…” he trailed off just before a huge grin came to his face. 

 

Maester Leeds looked at Sandor then down between his legs, with a grin spreading from ear to ear. “Yes well, my Lady will be very pleased.” He seemed to clear his throat rather oddly, as he made some more notations in the book.

 

At this Sandor began to struggle again. There was no need for this level of intrusion, by anyone on his body.

 

“Oh don’t worry you big baby, I’ll make this quick and relatively painless.” The Maester took a rather sharp long tool from his desk, inspected it closely and then put it in some kind of clear liquid. 

 

When the Maester went for his cock, Sandor began to thrash as much as he could, ‘ _ Fuck this! Not my cock old man!’ _

 

“You’re only going to make this worse if you struggle.” He old man was frustrated now, scratching his beard irritated. “A little pain then you get a chance to just...uh relax.”

 

That made Sandor fight more against his restraints in the hope he would loosen one enough to get an arm or a leg free. He had no such luck.

 

Using his teeth to pop the cork off of a vile, Maester Leeds swished its contents around dumped it in Sandor’s mouth. With the strap, Sandor couldn’t spit it out, he felt its thick liquid run down this throat, pissing him off even more.

 

“Lady Stark would not be very happy if I damaged your most...valuable weapon so to say. And for that you have to stop moving.” He could see that Sandor was still trying to fight the liquid’s effects. “It’s my own mixture of milk of the poppy, just enough to put you to sleep.”

  
Sandor pondered his words, but only a few moments before the darkness took him, ‘ _ What the fuck does Sansa want with my bloody cock?’ _


	3. A Plan Thicker than Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A deeper insight into Sansa's plans for Sandor unfold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all those wondering what our little red-head has been thinking about, here is a small glimpse into what she has in store. Looking forward to your comments and any suggestions for further story lines.

#  Chapter 3: A Plan Thicker than Water

 

##  Sansa

 

A light snow fell in the Godswood, it was so light that it almost seemed to float in the air giving the sacred place a more other worldly feel than usual. Sansa sat on a giant root under the great Weirwood tree, her hands in her lap. 

 

_ ‘He’s late. _ ’ She thought to herself,  _ ‘He’s rarely late.’ _

 

She pondered the meaning of this as her mind wandered back to a discussion that took place between her and her Maester just four moons ago. 

 

_ “So what you’re telling me Lady Sansa is: the most beautiful and available woman in Westeros has no interest in marriage whatsoever?” She and Maester Leeds had been drinking wine that evening, discussing politics and keeping each other company after a long day’s work. The slightly intoxicated Maester was eyeing her with drunken suspicion, which he clearly thought was not as obvious as it actually was. _

 

_ “Yes, Guenter. That’s exactly what I am saying. After two marriages I’m disgusted with the whole concept.” She drank deeply and continued, “Yet I am a Stark, and perhaps my family’s only chance at continuing the line.” _

 

_ The Maester observed her, contemplating something but not giving it away in his facial expression. Sansa liked him. He was a Northerner, a rarity in the Maester order. Maester Leeds was a tough man who had aspired to be a knight in his youth, but when injury befell him he took up academics instead. Giving up his land, property and a minor title he turned to a life of celibacy and study. It wasn’t difficult to see that he regretted that choice from time to time - but this humanism made him a good advisor, one steeped in the traditions of the North. It suited her people and her ambitions. _

 

_ “I don’t want to give my lands to somebody, nor do I want to deal with somebody who wants me just for that.” She continued, when it seemed her companion was at a loss for words. “I just want a man’s seed to be perfectly honest.” She smiled at the thought , “A strong, tall man with a defined character, who isn’t interested in stealing my home from me and using me as a puppet.” _

 

_ Guenter laughed, a twinkle in his dark blue eyes, “Oh if only I was thirty years younger and still studying at the Citadel, then I’d take you up on that offer.” _

 

_ Sansa knew he was teasing, though there was some truth in jest. She smiled, not knowing how to continue their conversation, but then he spoke again. _

 

_ “But that is a chore for a much younger and much less broken man than I.” He drank from his glass and settled deeper into his chair by the fire. He was suddenly very serious, “Your mother never told you of the Northern ways before the Targaryens united us all under one banner, did she?” _

 

_ The fire seemed to flicker and catch in his eyes, making them dance in the dim light. He continued, “Of course she didn’t, she was not from here. Perhaps she even felt our practices from these times barbaric.” _

 

_ Sansa cocked her head to the side in curiosity, “What are you trying to say?” _

 

_ “Your ancestors made a deal with the Dragon King, bend the knee, but under certain conditions.” She could see her Maester’s mind was racing, making connections and playing out the effects of certain actions. _

 

_ “Such as, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” She offered, still not sure where the conversation was going. _

 

_ “Precisely. But there were more demands than just that.” He paused, “Do you know why your brother Jon is considered a bastard?” _

 

_ She was taken aback, “Well because his parents weren’t married….” _

 

_ “No.” Maester Leeds cut her off then, smiling that she had proven his point so clearly. “He’s a bastard because we do not know who is mother is, not because his parents were unmarried.” _

 

_ The look she gave was that of confusion, not sure what was coming next from the old man’s lips. “You see in the North, before we appropriated many Southern beliefs, when paternity was in question, a child would take the name and rights of the mother. There was a high death rate at that time, and the only true parent one can know is the one who carried, then bore them.” _

 

_ She knew what he was getting at now, surprised by his eagerness to support her unconventional idea, “Matrilineage?” The word felt foreign on her tongue and yet so tastey she was almost salavating. “So what you are telling me is, by Northern standards, if I bear a child and no father claims it then they would be heir of Winterfell? A Stark, not a Snow?” _

 

_ Guenter didn’t need to answer her directly, that cheeky grin on his face and his body language said it all. If she was brave enough to break with the tradition of the land, she could have what she wanted, there was a possibility of fulfilling her will against all odds. _

 

_ “I only need to find the book and confirm it is in the proper part of the laws. Then we will know for sure.” The old Maester smiled, satisfied in his counsel. She knew he would find the book in Winterfell’s libraries, it was just a matter of time. _

 

_ Sansa was thoughtful a moment, “So all I need to do now is find the right man.” There was a sarcastic punch to her use of the word ‘all’ one that communicated the difficulty of the situation.  _

 

_ “So you need only find a Knight who isn’t really a Knight my Lady.” She could see her Maester laughing at his own joke, not realizing how his words made her remember the Hound. She forced a final smile, knowing Sandor Clegane was dead, never to come back. _

 

The sound of footsteps crunching on the snow shook Sansa from her memories. She looked up to see Maester Leeds making his way to her, his calm and deliberate pace giving her time to focus her thoughts once more. There was no way to read his expression, though she desperately wanted to know his findings. Leeds’ robes dragged in the snow, his chains rattled in the almost perfect silence of the Godswood, as he neared her and took a seat.

 

There was a moment of silence before she spoke, “So?”

 

At this her Maester grinned, “My Lady always does like to get right to the point.” 

 

Sansa gave him a warning look not press his luck too far. She was in no mood to be toyed with, she wanted to know what he had found, she wanted to know if Sandor Clegane could be the one she had been looking for.

 

“It took five men to subdue him.” The Maester began, doing his best to remain objective in his reporting. Sansa smiled at this, happy Sandor still had some fight in him.

 

Leeds continued, “His seed is thick and plentiful, he will certainly be able to sire.”

 

Some relief washed over Sansa at this news, and a feeling of arousal too. The night she had found him in her dungeons she had thought some time on what she could do with him, how she would handle having him as a ward. It had soon become clear that he was the man she had been looking for since her discussion with Maester Leeds some months ago. A strong man with a good character, healthy, with no lands or titles to his name and no ambition to obtain any. He was perfect, the caliber of a knight but with no title as such. He fit her requirements better than she could have imagined, but she had not considered a sexual attraction to him, until now.

 

“He is also rather...ample Lady Stark, should you also seek pleasure in addition to your duty.” The way Guenter said the word ‘duty’ almost made her glare at him. Particularly because the thought of Sandor being as big between his legs as he was in real life, produced a pang of desire between her legs.

 

“Be careful with your implications.” She warned, a sweetness coating her gentle warning. But the implication of the Hound being able to fill her beyond her satisfaction had already began to tie a knot in her stomach that would not easily be undone. 

 

Sansa continued, “I do sense a ‘but’ in your tone Maester Leeds.” She wasn’t sure what the older man had found, she just knew he had not been completely forthcoming with his information.

 

Guenter smiled at her words, “Well my Lady he is healthy. I found no diseases in my exhaustive testing of his body and to my surprise he still has all his fingers and toes. But,” the word hung heavy in the air as Sansa’s Maester struggled to find the best words to describe his thoughts, “he is out of shape. My predecessor Maester Luwin, a consummate observer of the male form, did describe him in his diaries during Robert Baratheon’s trip to Winterfell. I dare say he has not swung a sword in a very long time, probably since Lady Brienne nearly defeated him in the Vale.”

 

This didn’t surprise Sansa, he had been terribly injured and left for dead. Though it seemed that with the near loss of his life, he had lost something that had made him strong and confident in the past. What she had seen in her dungeons only a few nights ago, had been the shell of the man she had once known. She would need to right this.

 

Turning her eyes back to Guenter she spoke, “Does he have injuries that prevent him from training again?”

 

“No My Lady, he seems to have an amazing ability to recover from nearly fatal injuries. In this way he is rather extraordinary.”

 

She pondered this a moment, “So we’ll put a sword in his hand, train him up back to where he was when he was serving the Lannisters. Then…” Sansa trailed off as the next part of her plan was obvious to both of them.

 

Maester Leeds offered her his arm, an introspective look on his face, “Walk with me my Lady.”

 

The air was crisp around them, the day still young as they walked together through the Godswood. Snow crunching under their feet, the trees their only witnesses.

 

“If I may be so bold my Lady,” Guenter began after a prolonged silence, “I would advise caution with Sandor Clegane. He may not be the man you think he is.”

 

Sansa was slightly shocked at her Maester’s words. She knew Clegane certainly better than he did, having spent so much time with him during her years in the South. Not able to hide her surprise, she spoke.

 

“And what kind of a man do you think he is?” her tone implied that he knew nothing of the man he had just spent hours examining in his study. 

 

Guenter cleared his throat nervously, trying to find the right words to communicate his thoughts in the most diplomatic way possible.

 

“Forgive me Lady Stark, but I do believe that women often...oh how do I say this?  That women often underestimate men of his…..design.”

 

Sansa stopped walking a moment, halting them both in picturesque woods of her homeland, a confused look on her face.

 

Maester Leeds grasped both of her hands in his, looking her in the eye, “What I am trying to say Lady Stark is that most believe a man like Sandor Clegane would be happy to take a beautiful highborn woman into his bed and not think twice about siring a bastard...or two.” The Maester’s eyes were searching Sansa’s for a glimmer of understanding as to where he was going with his counsel. 

 

Not seeing a change in her expression he continued, “I would counsel caution with his man of yours. Though he may be tough and fearless on the outside, his brother left an indelible mark on him. One that has kept him emotionally distant from what he wants, a paraha in society because he looks and in turn acts a monster. Though inside he is still that little boy who could not protect himself from his older, destructive brother.”

 

Narrowing her eyes in apprehension Sansa studied her Maester, “I don’t understand where you are going with this Guenter.”

 

Momentarily breaking eye contact with her, Maester Leeds inhaled sharply, “He favors you Sansa. I know this because everytime I mentioned you his nostrils flared and his pulse increased. He is a Clegane, there is a loyalty in that line that the Lannisters have exploited for generations.” He was almost emotional now, doing his best to keep his voice as objective as possible, “It would be wise to consider the consequences of taking a loyal man who loves you to bed. He does not deserve to be exploited all over again.”

 

Sansa considered her Maester’s words, a knot in her stomach at their gravity. She had not considered this point, nor had she even considered Clegane’s possible interest in her.

 

“What would you propose I do then?” She asked.

 

“My Lady I cannot profess to know a man’s heart, but I would suggest you go slow. As you would gaining the trust of a wild animal in the woods. Train him, nurtur him, consider him as something more than a kennel master’s stud and just see.”

 

Sansa inhaled deeply. “Fine. I will take your words into consideration. Now please have old Nan’s cottage cleaned and have him brought to me there. Once he is awake of course.”

 

Her Maester smiled, somehow satisfied with her reaction, “Yes my Lady.”

 

With this he left her for the castle, alone in the silence of a wood older than time. If the Hound was really as broken a man as her Maester said he was, she would need to be sure of her decisions and consider the consequences of her plans carefully. Blood was thicker than water, and to bind them together with a child could prove to be more complicated than she had bargained for.


	4. Starting Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor gets a second chance at life and a choice to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to just remind you all, now, that this is supposed to be and will end up on the BDSM side of life. So if that's uncomfortable just read up to the point where it's comfortable. I have to practice writing these kinds of sexual acts and this will be my lab. Though....I'm not sure where the story goes from here....I have a few events but am open to your suggestions.
> 
> Clearly he's getting spanked by a riding crop.....just so we're all on the same page :-p

#  Chapter 4: Starting Over

##  Sandor

 

Compared to the last time he woke up in Winterfell’s dungeons, Sandor felt more rested, languid even. As usual, he took a moment to take in his surroundings before moving. His straw bedding had been changed, his clothing seemed new as there were no discernable rips or dirt on them from what he could tell. Then there was the cloak  _ ‘Fucking shit!’ _

 

He’d done all that he could to keep Sansa’s blasted cloak on the ground where it belonged, far far away from him. As it lay there, on top of him to keep his body warm, he cursed the man who had placed it there. It was akin to giving into her, to letting her win...letting her conquer him. Not just in his heart, but in his soul as well. 

 

_ ‘It still smells like her.’ _ He surmised as he slowly got up, suddenly placing a large hand between his legs to ensure the Maester hadn’t made off with his best part. Feeling a sense of indescribable relief, he kicked the cloak to the side of his cell though it did not make him feel better.

 

_ ‘Fucking Maester, if I see him again he’s dead.’ _ Sandor would never understand highborn people and their need for such things. There was no reason for her to be concerned about his state, no matter how she had found him. 

 

The urge to use the chamber pot crept up on Sandor, and he opened his trousers in order to relieve himself. Something wasn’t quite right, he was enjoying the feeling of pissing as if he’d just had sex. That feeling you get in your cock after a good hard cum, when you piss and it’s still sensitive. The Maester’s words suddenly squirmed into his thoughts,  _ ‘if you are healthy and in perfect working order’. _

 

_ ‘He fucking gave me a hand job while I was passed out!’ _ Sandor leaned back, putting himself back in his pants and pondered this a moment. He growled in anger.

 

_ ‘When I see Sansa, she’s getting a piece of my mind. She had no right, and he certainly didn’t.’  _

 

Sandor was angry again, yet somehow the endorphins in his body didn’t let his full anger crest as it normally would. He had always been treated as a thing. A big, ugly terrifying thing that could be used for protection, intimidation and war. The last year he had done everything in his power to move away from that, to bury that feeling of resentment as deep as he possibly could. His entire life he had allowed himself to be used and manipulated, he’d be damned if he was going to let it happen again. 

 

A noise from the bars of his cell turned his head, one of his Northern guards had returned. “The Lady wants to see you now.” The words,  _ ‘but I can’t fucking understand why’ _ were etched on the man’s face, clear enough for Sandor that the guard need not say the words. 

 

The door creaked open and Sandor left, following the guard. Time had stopped existing for Sandor in the dungeons, having not known whether it was night or day. He also wasn’t sure how many days he had been down there. Out in the courtyard of Winterfell he could see it was late afternoon judging by the faint sun, the crisp cool air filling his nostrils and waking his body. 

 

_ ‘I should have worn the fucking cloak.’  _ Sandor thought to himself as he fought against the cold. He laughed bitterly to himself at the irony of it all as they passed the tower he knew Sansa to be in. 

 

Curious, they continued walking past the stables, all eyes on the big Southern Monster who clearly didn’t fit in there. Sandor glared at those either too stupid to look away or not caring to with the hopes of intimidating them. There had been too much war between the north and the south for these men to trust him, he’d killed too many of their friends and family to become one of them. 

 

_ ‘It would be better just to be dead.’ _ Sandor thought bitterly to himself while the rounded the stables and made for a small cottage on at the edge of the castle grounds. 

 

The cottage was out of place there, a peasant’s house on highborn soil. There was smoke coming from the chimney and Sandor could see candle light from the tiny windows. The guard opened the door and motioned for the Hound to step through. Ducking so as not to hit his head on the doorframe, Sandor entered only to see her there, waiting for him by the fire. 

 

_ ‘God’s she’s beautiful.’ _ His subconscious screamed out before he had the chance to think or say anything. 

 

Sansa sat at the small table of the one room cottage, her expression hard, her deep blue eyes not giving away anything, but taking him in all the same. Assessing him as a fighter would his opponent, with a cold precision that ignited Sandor’s warrior instincts and put him on guard. They were alone again, if she was anything it was certainly bold. 

 

Sansa stood, taking a step toward him. It seemed as though she too did not know how to begin. “I thought you were dead.” She finally blurted out, a bit more emotion in her voice that she had cared to have. 

 

Sandor barked a cruel laugh, “I can’t say I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

 

She narrowed her eyes at him, channeling the charms of an angry wolf and not a lady, it tore through him, “I took no pleasure in this news. The world is a much better place with you in it.”

 

“Oh well ain’t that bloody sweet. Did you septa teach you when to use those words? Or did you come up with that on your own?” There was a bite to his words, he wanted to be clear he had no interest in being swayed by her, being used by her.

 

Her blue eyes growing heated she mumbled, just loud enough for him to hear over the crackling of the fire, “Do not presume to know the inner workings of my heart.”

 

“Is that the same heart that was wet in love for that cunt of a King Joffrey?” The Hound’s laugh was mirthless, the snarl of a wounded dog prepared to strike. “Trust me when I say I don’t want to fucking know the inner workings of your heart.”

 

Crimson flooded her neck to her cheeks, rage flashing in her eyes at his words.  _ ‘She’s so pretty this way, strong and fearless.’ _ The thought coming into his mind for a quick instant, before he could shoo it away.

 

Sansa had turned her whole body to face his, her fists were balled up at her sides, “I died that day when heard about what had happened in the Vale.” The words came out more emotion laced than either one of them had anticipated, her voice raising to a yell. 

 

She quickly turned her back to him, her cool in-control demeanor fracturing on the surface. Sandor was taken aback by her statement and the hint of desperation in her voice. ‘ _ Why would she ever shed a tear for me?’  _ His thoughts lingered on this, focused singularly on trying to understand her intentions.

 

Some moments passed in silence before she spoke again, “Then when I saw you in that horrid state in the dungeons and…”

 

Rage built in Sandor again at the mere thought of what had happened to him there. He cut her off, “So you decided to give me a proper Northern welcome didn’t you?”

 

She looked shocked at his words, but he continued walking closer to her, “Tying me up to an examination table and inspecting me like a freakshow is a bloody good way to say hello.” He was yelling now, his blood pressure rising.

 

The red flush that had taken her over earlier was growing deeper at his words, but this time it wasn’t anger, it was embarrassment. Sandor knew it as such, he’d observed her closely enough in King’s Landing to know the difference. 

 

“He said no harm would come to you. That you might even enjoy it.” She’d taken back her stoic persona, trying to distance herself from the feelings their argument were stirring up.

 

“Enjoy it?” Sandor laughed, his steel eyes glaring at her, “If that Maester comes near me again, I’ll kill him. You had no right, he for fucking certain had no right to do that.”

 

She looked down a moment, at a loss for words. Sandor continued, like a dog finding a weakness in its prey, “It seems Ramsay rubbed off on you.”

 

His words cut her deeper than any weapon, of this he was certain. It was why he had chosen them as he had. Sandor wanted to hurt her, wanted her to feel the rage that he had. She flew at him, all of the anger of a caged animal.

 

“How dare you!” She said through gritted teeth as she raised her hand to him. 

 

There was no letting her hand hit the mark this time, he caught it easily before it made contact with his face. Quickly he twisted her arm around to her back, pulling her close to him. They were chest to chest, breathing hard, exhausted by their linguistic melee. She was not the girl he had left in King’s Landing, afraid of everything and holding her tongue for fear of execution. He could see it in her deep blue eyes, a blue as the sky on a hot summer’s day. They burned through him with anger, pain and something else Sandor couldn’t quite put his finger on. She was as infuriating, as she was beautiful. And somehow, whether she knew it or not, she had a way to quiet the rage within him.

 

They stared into one another’s eyes for what seemed like an eternity. Neither one of them wanting to back down or give in. In the end it was he who would yield, letting her arm go because he couldn’t stand her being so close to him. It was her smell, lavender and grass that had begun seeping into nostrils, clouding his thoughts and making him feel things he had long suppressed. 

 

This seemed to break the spell, for Sansa stepped away from him then, her eyes still locked with his. “I’ll see to it that he is reprimanded and make sure he doesn’t come near you, unless you need medical attention.”

 

Sandor nodded, accepting her apology and hoping she would drop her gaze from him. It made him feel exposed.

 

“Perhaps we should start over my Lord.” She continued, looking down at the floor like she had so often in King’s Landing when she had been embarrassed or hadn’t known what to do. It gave Sandor a sense of deja vu, remembering suddenly how she had been and how much had transpired since that time. 

 

He felt instantly guilty.  _ ‘A cornered dog attacks even the most well intentioned master.’  _

 

Sandor let the next minutes pass in silence until she looked up at him again. “Am I a prisoner here?” He asked, the anger gone from his voice.

 

“No.” She said, with almost no emotion, “And yes.”

 

The Hound cocked his head to the side confused, wondering what sort of highborn mind game they would play next. She continued, more confident than before, “You are free to walk around the grounds and the castle at your leisure, but I will not let you go before you are back in shape.”

 

Sandor put his hands on his hips, “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

 

“My Maester said that the injury,” she looked at his leg to where Brienne of Tarth had put her sword, “would not affect your ability to train. But that you needed some time training to be back to your original form.”

 

She blushed like a maid as she said it, as if she knew more about his body than she cared to tell him. 

 

“I gave it up. I won’t be some Lord or Lady’s pawn.” Sandor crossed his arms defensively. 

 

It seemed as though she had anticipated this, as her answer came quicker than Sandor could have imagined, “I don’t want you to be my pawn, but I won’t let you out on the King’s road without a means to protect yourself. So if you want to stay, then this cottage is at your disposal. If you prefer your freedom..” She trailed off for a moment, trying to find the right words, “...then I suggest you start your training tomorrow.”

 

“Start my training tomorrow?” He asked surprised. “I’m no green boy who needs a wooden sword.”

 

“You’re a green boy who needs discipline.” She shot back at him, the sudden change in her deminear and the raise in her eyebrow made Sandor’s thoughts wander to the sexual. 

 

Her threat of walking him around on all fours suddenly invaded his mind, making the blood rush slowly to his groin. He’d gladly have her dig her heels into him if it meant mounting her when it was all said and done. Sandor doubted she had the same idea, and yet behind her cold eyes he could sense something bubbling toward the surface.

 

Sandor laughed outright, “I’ll eat the little fuckers for breakfast. I’m not swinging a sword just to lob off a boy’s arm.”

 

There was a flash in Sansa’s blue eyes, a flare of something Sandor could only describe as mischief, “That’s not what I heard.” She retorted, leaving her challenge thick in the air.  “My Maester would say otherwise.”

 

His fists clenched involuntarily, “Your bloody Maester doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. Fucking cunts the whole lot of them.”

 

Sansa smirked slightly, “Well if you are not in agreement with his professional assessment. I would be happy to inspect you myself. I’ve learned a thing or two about what makes a good warrior in the meanwhile.”

 

Her arms were crossed, a satisfied look spread across her face as if she’d just achieved some sort of goal he wasn’t privy to. It was only then he realized how she’d keenly backed him into a corner. Not only had she gotten him to somehow agree to train again, but male pride dictated he not back down from her challenge. Of course, he also wanted his freedom.

 

Clearly he had waited a bit too long to respond, as she threw him a, “I can turn around if you prefer.” All the while her eyes burning with a victory he didn’t even know was there to claim. If he didn’t know better, it would have seemed like she was flirting with him.

 

Sandor snorted, flashing her a knowing look, “Fine.” 

 

There was no doubting her intentions as he removed his jerkin, throwing it unceremoniously to the floor. His boots soon followed. It was a confusing thing though, his little bird eyeing him with unclear intentions, but certainly without contempt and disgust. Amused Sandor removed his tunic and finally his trousers, standing there only in his increasingly tight small clothes. 

 

“Come a little closer to the fire, I need to see you better.” She asked, making a motion that he approach her. 

 

He wanted her to see him naked, there was no denying that. Some men wore their charms on the outside, but the Hound knew his were certainly underneath his clothing. He’d thought about it dozens of times over the months and years, but something here didn’t make sense. In his dreams she’d never been so willing, always apprehensive or frightened of his large body and his monstrous face. Now she was sure, clear and had manipulated the conversation in such a way as to lead him to this point. Sandor took some steps toward her, so the fire light illuminated his body for her, a smirk on his face.

 

She removed a riding crop from her side, placing the leather tip gently on his chest, “Back straight and shoulders high, or has it been that long?” Her face morphed into a girlish tease as she said the words, making Sandor smile despite himself. 

 

“You know how to use that thing, or is it just for show?” He shot back, standing up straight and flexing as best he could. He knew the Maester was correct, he had been in better shape when he was in the service of the Lannisters at King’s Landing. But that still didn’t justify starting at the bottom rung. He was still muscular and large compared to others, and he knew it. 

 

In response Sansa’s eyes met his demurely as she began her inspection of his form. It wasn’t uncommon to perform such inspections of soldiers, but it generally happened before going to war, not now. _ ‘She’s teasing me.’ _ He thought to himself, ‘ _ But to what end?’  _

 

At this moment he frankly didn’t care, her eyes were raking over him like a hungry bear’s would, and he was certainly receptive to her attentions. He’d given up being a soldier, he’d hated the way he had been used and tossed away,  _ ‘...but for her..for her I’d reconsider.’ _

 

Sandor shivered slightly, feeling the leather tip of the riding crop run delicately over his body. It was not customary to touch the soldier one was inspecting with the hand, it was usually a riding crop or cane. The hardness of one’s muscles needed to be tested, the firmness of one’s body confirmed.  He was suddenly taken with the desire for her to smack him with the riding crop, hard. Sandor wanted the blushing redhead to give him a reason to push her against the wall and have his way with her. The mere thought made blood rush between his legs, but what was the point of covering that up?

 

Sansa rounded him, finishing her inspection exactly where she had started, facing him. He wasn’t fully hard, but it was obvious that he had liked it, liked the feeling of her eyes on him. The feeling that she had the will and the means to control him. He cleared his throat in the silence of the cottage.

 

“I can see why the men are frightened of you Clegane, you are imposing and naturally strong.” She made a point not to move her eyes from his, but Sandor knew she could see the beginnings of his excitement in her peripheral vision.

 

She continued, “It seems that the green boys will have their work cut out for them.” 

 

Normally Sandor would have been upset with her assessment, argued her conclusion, but he knew better. She was right, as her shit for a Maester had been. So he merely nodded.

 

“You can put your clothes back on.” She offered, putting the crop back into her waist belt. 

 

“And if I don’t want to?” He breathed, surprised something so bold would pass his lips without alcohol in his blood. 

 

He saw a smirk briefly creep across her face, “Then I suppose you’ll just get cold.”

 

Sansa walked past him, toward the door. Then turned back, “It’s good to see you like this.” She said, “Now get some rest, we Northerners are known for our toughness.”

 

“Why?” he asked suddenly, not afraid of how awkward it was placed in their conversation. But he had to know why she was trying to fix him, why she cared.

 

She smiled and looked down toward the ground, “Because you deserve a second chance.”

 

Sandor watched her leave, he had not anticipated what seeing her again would do to him, how it would throw everything in his mind into chaos. But she’d given him something few had, a chance to start over and to choose his path. He smiled at that thought. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going for a naughty BDSM fic here. I would love to have some dirty things happen between them -- probably involving Sandor breaking some rules and having the Lady of Winterfell putting him back in his place. The ending I am aiming for (for now) is a bit more on the clean yourself up, then be mine forever type scenario.......with a dirty twist!


End file.
